


Of Losses and Wins

by everybreatheverymove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Already having lost two husbands by the age of twenty, Sansa Stark finds herself agreeing to marry her noble cousin Jon Snow in an attempt to regain some stability.</p><p>-</p><p>Has she tricked him into this, let him believe that he was the one talking her into it when it was really the other way around?</p><p>“Well, I can’t marry you without knowing what your lips taste like, can I?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Losses and Wins

“Tell me it isn’t true.”

The young woman falls into the seat in front of her handmaiden on the wooden bench, hands folded in her lap and lashes fluttering.

Two failed marriages would suffice for one lifetime. Did she truly need to be forced into a third?

“‘Tis true, milady. The farmer’s daughter saw the car arrive some time after snowfall.”

Snowfall usually occurred a handful of hours before the evening feast began, which could only mean that the new guest would most likely be present tonight.

“That’s a little late for an arrival.” Sansa knitted her brows with a heavy breath as she felt Jos, her handmaiden, run her hairbrush through her thick red hair, untangling the tired locks. “Could they not have waited until morning?”

“Perhaps Lord Targaryen was eager to see you.”

The lady can hear the smile in her voice, and she lifts a brow sharply as a warning. “Please. He’s a Snow.” Sansa licks her lips, loosens her stiff shoulders, “He was a Snow when we were children. He is a Snow now. No inheritance from a suspicious rich man is going to change that. He’s still a bastard.”

Sansa hears Jos squeak out a quiet, “A handsome one, though.” But she brushes it aside, ignoring the comment and changing the subject. “Is my hair not brushed yet?”

The younger girl swallows, finishing her task with a couple strokes of the redhead’s mane. “Yes, milady.”

When her brush is placed back down on the dresser, Sansa stands and opens out her arms, waiting for the girl to dress her in her coat.

“No braid, milady?”

“No.” She pouts, “I feel a headache coming along.”

Sansa Stark was only twenty years old, but she had already sat through the loss of two husbands. Granted, she had never been the ideal wife and their unions weren’t ever the thing of dreams.

One had been twice her age but might as well have been half her height. Dwarfed, Tyrion Lannister was a banker. Clever, witty, and a friend of her late Father’s. He had been a match made in liquor-induced conversation between the two men.

He hadn’t been Sansa’s choice, but she would take him again any day over her second husband. He had provided for her, gave her a house and everything she wanted. The only real problem in their marriage had been a complete lack of attraction on her behalf, and thus no consummation, something which had always seemed to confuse her fool of a father. How foolish was he to not understand her lack of desire to lay with a man both her senior and her junior, a drunk with a scarred face and a liking for whores?

But before the marriage was annulled, and she had been passed on to another, Tyrion had succumbed to the effects of a disease he had somehow brought back with him from overseas. And she had been left widowed for the first time.

Her second husband was the harsher of the two evils. His father had been a nemesis of her own, but the men had decided that uniting the families would settle the feud and spread peace over the tension. Except that Ramsay Bolton had been a nightmare and nobody had known about it.

She had agreed to the marriage, now of age, after much discussion with the young man himself. But he’d seemed rather bland at the time, nowhere near the level of lunacy that she would later find him to be.

Her wedding night had been disastrous, with his hands where she didn’t want them, and his mouth on hers when she refused it. Her first time laying with a man was more of an attack on her being by a monster covered in flesh, disguised by brown hair and a creepy smile.

Sansa was fairly certain that she had never given her consent to their engagement, and she had experienced no enjoyment out of their affair. But she daren’t say anything, for fear of humiliation and further abuse by her spouse.

She had handled a drunk husband, surely she could have managed a violent one. Moving into the countryside with the man who featured in all of her nightmares had seemingly only increased his drive, his apparent need to hurt her, mark her body. She had scars on the low of her back from a small blade he had used as a toy, wielding it around like a child held a wooden stick.

Her abuse had finally ended when her husband, the son of a greedy businessman, took a fall down the stairs. Sansa had feigned ignorance, cluelessness, had even managed to spring tears to her eyes when the inquiries started.

“No, I did not push him. I woke up to find him lay there, eyes open and legs all bent out of shape at the bottom of the stairs. I swear it on my life, sir. I am a widow, not a murderer.”

Once her bags were packed, she had moved into her brother’s home by the seaside. Robb was her older brother, and she looked to him for support since their parents untimely demise in an automobile accident the year before.

Their deaths had crushed her for all of a minute before she had been forced into another one of her husband’s deranged acts. But he was gone now. And she was widowed, again. A murderer in a widow’s pretty black dresses.

The only light she could draw from her father’s death was the prospect of never having to marry again. Tainted she would remain, and she would happily accept a life of solitude.

Childhood daydreams of love and romance and bearing children no longer appealed to her. She would much rather settle down with needles by a fire and knit to her heart’s content.

But, as it turned out, Robb had not only taken over Father’s role as the family patriarch, but he’d taken it upon himself to set her up again, to shove her face first into another loveless marriage.

Only this time it seemed to be with their cousin, the best friend of his youth, and the boy she used to tease when they were children. He was three years her senior, and the bastard boy of her aunt.

She hadn’t seem him since she reached flowering age, and could only remember small details about his face. He had been much too basic for her dreamy tastes back then, and too lean for her liking. She always imagined he would grow up weak, the direct contrast of her eldest brother.

But with no news, safe for the reveal that he had in fact been the spawn of a polyamorous romance between her aunt and a prestigious Duke. Decidedly, the man had married her father’s sister in secret and his death had resulted in her bastard cousin inheriting a small fortune, though much more than her own family’s current worth.

Maybe he would be worth marrying. Maybe providing for her would be enough. Who needed love and romance and children anyhow? She only required a house to look after and a husband that wouldn’t engrave her skin if she angered him.

* * *

“Robb.”

Sansa grasps her skirts as she shuffles towards her brother, eagerly making her way into his range of view.

Red hair neatly falling down her back, she stops in front of the tall man, admiring his costume. “Special occasion?”

The auburn haired man glances down at her from the corner of his eye, noticing her smirk. “Sansa. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” She feigns innocence, letting an obvious smirk grace her lips. “I was told you invited some guests. Is this not true?”

“A guest.” Robb corrects her, with a raised brow and a scratch at the bridge of his nose, “You remember our cousin, don’t you?”

He tilts his head towards the man in the doorway, hands fumbling with his pocket and head ducked low.

Still an utter idiot, Sansa reflects as she shoots the man a look, turning her attention back to Robb before he reaches them.

She grins, clasping her hands in front of her, “Of course. How could I ever forget the boy who urinated in your bed when you were six?”

“Sansa!”

“That’s alright. At least she remembers me.” She turns at the sound of the voice behind her, the glaring northern accent catching her off-guard. A decade in the south of the country seemingly didn’t impact that gruff voice of his.

“Jon.” Robb pats a hand against his shoulder with a smile before resting it there and turning to face Sansa, a warning look in his eyes.

Smile adorning her lips, she holds out a hand for their cousin, waiting for him to kiss her hand. He does this, expression bland yet brown eyes alight.

His eyes appear darker than she remembers them, though their youthful days are behind then. No more playing around in leaves when Father wasn’t looking. His hair is almost black, somber yet just brown enough to match his eyes. It curls messily yet somehow nicely cradles his face. His facial hair is not nearly too thick for her liking, and she finds herself admiring his lashes for a moment longer than she would like to.

He’s pretty, prettier than most girls she has known, prettier than she remembers or even thought he would be, could be.

But pretty is not what she desires or requires anymore. Tyrion had money, Ramsay had looks. He has both. And this makes him unsafe.

“Mr. Snow.”

“Targaryen, now.”

“Snow.” She nods to herself with a devilish smile, ignoring his correction and her brother’s glare.

Jon sighs, “Alright.”

“Shall we eat?”

* * *

Supper passes much quicker than she would have liked. She was quite enjoying the chitchat between the man, admiring their banter and wondering why it is that they never ask her opinion on anything. Is it because she is the only woman in the house, safe for Robb’s pregnant wife, now that Arya has married and left them?

When they finish and the servants clean, the men retire to the study to talk about one thing or another, and she follows discreetly, removing her small heels to avoid being heard.

She holds the straps in one hand as the other grasps the bottom of her skirt, stopping it from ruffling against the wooden floor.

“Will it not be strange?”

She hears Jon clear his throat after he speaks, and she peaks through the opened door to catch a glimpse of their discussion.

Are they planning what to do with her? Is this where Robb decides to ship her off without her consent? She won’t stand for that, no matter how much she wants to leave his protection and care for her own house. She has learned that agreeing is key to happiness.

“What, to have you wed my sister?” Robb seems to laugh, as though the idea could be anything but normal. “You would be much better suited for her than her last husband. Cousin or not.”

“Is this the husband she claims took a fall?”

Sansa frowns, letting her teeth chew into her bottom lip as she wraps long fingers around the door to steady herself.

Do they suspect she killed him? Did they not believe her trick? Her own flesh and blood?

“I’ve always been sure there is reason behind it, no matter what happened. My sister would never kill a man if he didn’t deserve as much.”

“So I’m to risk death?”

Robb pulls out a chair from his desk and ushers Jon down to sit in it, and he rests a hand on the desk himself. “Jon, you’ve known us since we were children. Hells, we’ve shared baths.” He chuckles, and Sansa hears their cousin copy.

“Aye.”

“You know my sister is no savage. You remember her singing to those bloody flowers, don’t you? What girl could be so dangerous?”

“With all due respect, she is a girl no more, Robb. She seems grown, and I imagine losing two husbands was no easy task.”

“Are you saying you no longer find this a good match?”

“I’m saying we need to speak with her about-”

“You.” Robb grits his teeth, “You need to speak to her. Tell her why you’re here and what that might entail. Tell her you need a wife and that this will profit you both, equally.”

Sansa swallows a sharp breath before finally pushing the door to a full open and stepping into the room, bare feet tapping against polished wood.

She licks her lips, blue eyes watching her brother and cousin as they stop talking.

“Why do I need to marry you?”

Robb stands up straight, “Sansa.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m asking him.” She points a finger at Jon loosely, the sharp angle of her brow intimidating the dark haired fellow. “You can leave.” She mutters through gritted teeth at Robb, eyes like ice-made daggers.

Jon waits for her brother to leave the study, door pulled ajar behind him, before finally replying to her.

“Your position is no longer… enviable, cousin.” He confesses as he moves to stand, fingers curling around the back of the seat.

“Oh?”

A scarred, twice-widowed young woman is not very attractive to bachelors, it seems.

“It’s rather the end of your last marriage that poses issue with most, and thus your chances of being courted aren’t entirely numerous.”

Sansa folds her arms over her chest, shoes tapping against her hipbones as they dangle from her fingertips. “Are you saying I’m not desirable, Mr Snow?”

“Targaryen.” Jon corrects her with a frown, “And, no. All I am suggesting is that you may find yourself in need of a-”

“Mr Snow, I don’t need another husband.” Just money and a home. She shrugs, lips pursed, “As you so kindly pointed out, I’ve already had two. Though really only one proved to be true. I say true, I mean consummated.” She keeps a brow raised and taps her index finger against her left arm, “Tell me, have you married in the past?”

“No, Lady Stark.”

“Have you laid with a woman? Would you know what to do?”

“Yes. I can assure you that I’ve had far more experience with unmarried women than you have with either of your lawful husbands.”

“Then why do you need a wife?”

He smiles, stepping closer to her but retaining some distance. “Because you seem to have forgotten, I’ve gone up in the world. Surely still surprising news to us both.” He waves a hand before moving them behind his back.

She watches as his black suit creases, fits him perfectly.

“And climbing up the ladder is usually accompanied by a fair portion of stability. And stability most often comes in the form of marriage.”

“And why me?”

“You’re going to need me if you ever want to leave Robb’s nest.” He almost smirks, but instead he brushes a strand of his wild dark hair behind his ear and stares at her.

She shifts from one leg to the other, briefly moving her gaze to his mouth. “Do you own a home?”

“A little further north. It snows all winter.” He takes another step toward her, stopping when she meets his eyes with something that resembles caution. “Robb tells me that a heavy snowfall is one of your absolute favourite things.”

She brushes off his note, however thoughtful it may be, choosing instead to focus on what she needs rather than what she wants.

She would eat lemon cakes and make dresses all day if he let her.

She needs safety and assurance, though.

“Can I visit here as often as I like?”

“Of course.” He wants to add that Robb and their siblings are his family, too, but he refrains. Avoid closeness. Feign separation.

“When would we marry?”

“As soon as you agree to it. As soon as you want.”

“What if I agree to it right now?”

He finds her to be complicated, much more than he’d expected her to be. Yes, she has suffered. Yes, she has been through more than most women her age. But she’s sometimes intense, and definitely challenging. Their once closeness is practically gone, instead replaced with something close to slight trepidation on her behalf.

Does she need reassuring that he isn’t monster? Will that stop her from possibly killing him, too?

“Then we’ll marry tomorrow.” She lets out the smallest of gasps at that, hand flying to cover her mouth and he chuckles, “If you’d like.”

Sansa takes a moment to lower her hand and place her shoes on her brother’s desk before moving forward, two steps closer to her newly intended.

“After tomorrow.” She holds up a hand, curled at the wrist and fingers twitching, and she presses it against his chest. “I’ll need to find a dress.” She grins devilishly, and he isn’t sure if she has been playing him this whole time, if she has been faking uncertainty.

“Alright.”

Her blue eyes seem to darken in the moody light of the study, and she licks her lips slowly as though she’s trying to conjure something from him. Perhaps she is. Money, power, safety. Has she tricked him into this, let him believe that he was the one talking her into it when it was really the other way around?

“Well, I can’t marry you without knowing what your lips taste like, can I?”

Jon stares down at her with raised brows, letting himself lean into her as she takes his elbow in her grasp, tightly wrapping her fingers around his covered flesh.

She tugs at his arm and flutters her lashes, keeping her piercing eyes on his pretty mouth.

“Kiss me, Mr Snow.”

**Author's Note:**

> First full-length Jon/Sansa piece so I'm not entirely sure how it's gonna go down but I'm hopeful that it'll be good, even though it's been a while since I've written anything other than oneshots. I'm hoping you guys enjoy it, and want more, and that you let me know what you think. (I haven't re-read it for errors yet, but I'll get to that soon!) Thanks for reading.


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